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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26111503">To Study (Insects)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spencebox/pseuds/Spencebox'>Spencebox</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Man of Steel (2013), Superman - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Bugs, Clark Kent Needs a Hug, Clark Kent is Henry Cavill, Edited as of March 2021, Entomolgy, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Follows the Man of Steel Events and Eventually Bats v Sups, I also love Man of Steel, I love Henry Cavill, Kryptonite, Man of Steel Verse, Meant To Be, More Tags will be added as we go on!, No Beta we die like Kings, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Clark Kent, Pre-Man of Steel for a little bit, Protective Clark Kent, Protectiveness, Romance, Savior Complex, Size Kink, Smut, Soul Bond, Top Clark Kent, True Love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:55:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,690</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26111503</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spencebox/pseuds/Spencebox</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The best thing about Kansas, was that nothing ever happened. </p><p>Nothing consisted of the existence of one Clark Kent, and all the strangeness seemed to follow him wherever he went. There was something nice about him, something that warmed Connie Mayfield's inside through and through. Was it simply his blue eyes, or maybe the furrow in his brow when she talked about how he shouldn't kill the pests that favored Martha's blueberry pie?</p><p>Well, whatever it was, it was deeper than Connie or Clark could even begin to understand, and much stronger than a ship of Kryptonians hell bent on finding Kal-El.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clark Kent/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>93</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Different</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Well, it's been a minute. </p><p>I haven't updated any of my works in a while because I've been pretty depressed for a while. Man of Steel is in my top 5 fav movies of all time, and I've wanted to write a Man of Steel fanfic since... 2013. And here, in 2020, I'm doing it. </p><p>Hold on for the ride folks.</p><p>Edited as of March 2021! GUYS! THE ERRORS! IM SO SORRY!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The best thing about living in Kansas was that nothing ever happened.</p>
<p>There was a mile wide sprawl of corn that was breathtaking to few; it had started out as nothing much but rows upon rows of dirt that now bore sprawls of golden richness that could truly blind any tourist with its beauty.  Most of it was picked and sold—Kansas was full of rural farmers and farmers markets, but some just stayed for show.</p>
<p>And the Farmers Market typically consisted of stay-at-home mothers trying to sell their overpriced sugary sweet lemon bars to any sucker who would pay seven dollars for four measly pieces.</p>
<p>Most of the teens at the local high school got rides home from their parents, but Connie Mayfield knew that you couldn’t pay her Father, Walter, to pick his daughter up from school. If he did, then he’d no doubt miss a rerun of Baywatch, and that simply couldn’t happen.</p>
<p>A tune that rivaled the airiness of a flute flew from the 14 year olds mouth on her long walk home. Connie Mayfield whistled a nonchalant melody as her uneven pace took her closer to home. The young girl had a lot on her mind; there was a test on Friday that was covering another form of division that looked to confusing to follow, and Alice’s birthday party was on Saturday and getting a gift for the little girl who had everything was harder than it seemed. The years of gifts consisting of dolls and bright hairbrushes were long over. Maybe she’d like a new bracelet or a set of earrings.</p>
<p>An irregular rock bumped against the tip of her shoe and she grinned, lobbing it off into the cornfield, a little thud echoing through the golden maze. </p>
<p>It was tempting—the idea of taking the not so short shortcut through the tall stalks, if just to feel a little more free for just a moment, but the sounds of distress just up ahead had her little sneakers speeding up. She turned to the bend and grew furious at the sight of three boys throwing around her friend.</p>
<p>“Hey!” she bellowed, running closer before screeching to a halt in front of the teen holding up her friend by the lip of his shirt, “Leave him alone!”</p>
<p>Isaiah Matthews grinned with his fist still clutching the younger boy's shirt, “Oooo, is this your girlfriend, Kent?”</p>
<p>Clark Kent sneered up at the taller boy, fists clenching in rage. </p>
<p>“Leave her alone,” he grit out, watching Isaiah sneer with confidence.</p>
<p>“I didn’t take you for a pussy, Kent, but I guess I was wrong.” He dropped Clark with a grin and sauntered to the near growling girl. </p>
<p>“Connie, right? My dad says you Mayfield’s are trailer trash, and I can see where he gets that from.”</p>
<p>His eyes gave her a visible up-and-down, “No wonder only a <em>freak </em>would like you.” </p>
<p>The words had barely left his mouth before Clark launched himself onto the back of the bully, pummeling him to the ground with hateful eyes. The two other lackeys ran, but Connie went and pulled Clark back before he did something he’d regret. The two of them fell away from the older boy, watching him with guarded eyes.</p>
<p>Isaiah spat at ground near their feet, “<em>Fucking freaks</em>.”</p>
<p>Connie waited until he was out of sight, turning to Clark and frowning at his disheveled appearance. “You know, I’m not always gonna be here to save you, Clark.”</p>
<p>He wiped away the sheen of dirt and sweat covering his upper lip, refusing to meet her eyes. “I didn’t need your help. I could’ve handled it.”</p>
<p>“Oh yeah, you totally had it under control,” she mocked with pursed lips.</p>
<p>He frowned at her sarcasm and picked up his dirtied school bag, looking down the path home. It was a quick walk to the farm, and mom had probably already started dinner, which is why it made no sense when he turned and muttered, “Can I walk you home?”</p>
<p>Her eyes went wide at his question, upper teeth nibbling on her pink lip, shrugging, “Sure, if you want.”</p>
<p>They both nodded and started a slow walk to the Mayfield’s. Connie’s fingers twitched at her side while different conversation starters nearly passed through her lips every few seconds. The urge to ask why he never fought back, why he let people call him a freak raced through her mind, but only silence hung between them. It was almost annoying that he never stood up for himself.</p>
<p>There was something mysterious about Clark that intrigued her 14-year-old brain; no one had ever let him live down that time he’d locked himself in a closet (<em>and torched the doorknob till it was bright red). </em></p>
<p>He was just the guy who kept to himself most of the time.  </p>
<p>And still she kept on eye on him the entire time, watching his own twitching fingers pick at the loose lining of his jeans, lip biting in a matter similar to her own, brows furrowing in thought, though they always did that. He looked cute when he was deep in thought.</p>
<p>
  <em>Cute? I think Clark is… cute?</em>
</p>
<p>A deep redness flooded her cheeks and her lips pursed into a thin line, trying not to visibly speed away from the other boy, but Clark noticed everything. There was something keen about the way his mind worked; almost predatorial. </p>
<p>“Are you okay?” he asked, the cute furrow in his brow deep as she faced him while willing away the redness of her juvenile cheeks. </p>
<p>She nodded but didn’t meet his blue eyes. They were like oceans—<em>I’d swim in Clark’s eyes if he’d ask</em>—and her stomach always fluttered when he looked at her.</p>
<p>She expected them to fall back into silence, now halfway to the Mayfield farm, but Clark piped up, “Are you excited for the field trip tomorrow?”</p>
<p>A flutter of excitement rang through her veins, but she held back and simply nodded. “It’ll be a nice change from sitting inside all day.” Clark nodded along with her running words, “I heard the museum has a section on insects and their habitats, and I hope they have a butterfly display. Or—or maybe a real entomologist will be there.”</p>
<p>Now bugs- those were <em>cool. </em>Anything from crickets to butterflies to beetles, each one more interesting than the last…except arachnids. You could keep those eight-legged freaks as far away as humanly possibly.</p>
<p>Clark slowed their pace but kept his distance, “Is that what you wanna be when you grow up?”</p>
<p>She grinned and tried to slow the internal monologue of bug talk.</p>
<p>“I think when I grow up, I’ll leave this place behind and follow my dreams.” She said.</p>
<p>“And I guess those dreams do include insects of all types. They really do get a bad reputation sometimes. I think they’re just as delicate and interesting as humans.”</p>
<p>“Really?” Clark wrinkled in his nose, “My dad sprays the fields for bugs in the summer.” She hit his shoulder as he let out a snort, “I think I’ve squashed a few flies for mom too.”</p>
<p>She shook her head and couldn’t see Clark staring at her golden locks as they shined in the sun. “You’re the worst, Kent.”</p>
<p>The both chuckled and came to a halt in front of the Mayfield farm. It was more run down than the other houses in the area and the roof could’ve been mistaken for caving in, and she knew it looked worse on the inside. The moldy green color of the roof had seen better days, and the porch could barely hold the old rocking chair that her dad liked to sit on in the mornings. Clark would never know how the inside looked even worse.</p>
<p>“Do you know what you wanna be when you grow up?” She asked with a soft smile, taking no offense as Clark tried, once again, not to meet her eyes. The swoop of his brown hair was nearing the tops of his eyes, but she knew he wasn’t inclined to cut it. He didn’t buzz his hair like the other boys.</p>
<p>“I…” He paused, foot kicking the uneven dirt under his shoes. He bit his lip lower lip and finally, after what seemed like an eternity, met her honey eyes.</p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p>He took a deep breath and lightly shrugged, “Sometimes, I feel like I don’t know who I am. I think I wanna figure that out first, ya know?”</p>
<p>No, she didn’t know but asking Clark to explain how he felt could feel like pulling teeth. Golden honey stared into the aquamarine sea, two sets of young lips wet and wanting, and Connie picked at her pants, nails bending with surprising force.</p>
<p>The door to the Mayfield hold slammed with a grotesque force, and the two teens jumped away from one another as Walter Mayfield grunted his way to them, to <em>Clark.</em></p>
<p>“’Thought I told you to stay away from my daughter, Kent!” Walter bellowed, nearing the fourteen-year-old clear-eyed boy who showed no sign of backing down with his head held high and chest jutted out. “I don’t want you lookin’ at her, touchin’ her—“</p>
<p>Connie finally yelled, “Dad!” and stood between him and Clark, protecting her friend from the unjustified anger of her dad. She felt Clark’s fingers grip the back of her shirt and tug her closer, just as Walter stood over them with beady eyes and steam shooting from his ears.</p>
<p>“Get in the house, Connie.” Her dad growled, never looking away from Clark.</p>
<p>But she shook her head and pushed against her dad’s chest, ignoring Clark’s fingers still gripping the back of her shirt. “We weren’t doing anything, go back inside, please.”</p>
<p>A startled yelp left her throat as her dad’s strong fist lurched her forward by the front of her shirt, throwing her to the ground and out of Clark’s grip. The air left her lungs and the dirt felt dry under her fingertips, watching as Clark seemed to vibrate in place, glaring deadly at Walter.</p>
<p>“If I ever see you ‘round here again, <em>Kent</em>,” He spat, “I’ll make you wish you were never born. Are we clear?”</p>
<p>The threat hung between the adult and young teen, and Clark tightly nodded and stalked off down the dirt path, not once looking back at Connie, never seeing the tears in her eyes.</p>
<p>Walter stared down at his daughter with a sneer, “Get inside. I won’t say it again.”</p>
<p>The dried dirt caked under her nails as she scrambled to stand and bolt inside, not taking note of the woman asleep on the couch that she’d never seen before, or the beer bottles covering the kitchen counters. The stairs creaked as she fled upstairs and shut her bedroom door, clicking the latch in place. A heaviness sat in her chest as her backpack thumped to the floor.</p>
<p>Beaded tears fell down her thick cheeks and light cries sounded through the room.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“—I want that boy away from my son!” the mother of Peter Ross screeched from the Principal's office. “Am I the only one who understands the situation? That boy lifted a bus from a lake. <em>A bus!</em> What kind of monster are we allowing to walk with our children?”</p>
<p>The meek father of Alice pepped up, “But—But he did save them, right?”</p>
<p>“It doesn’t matter, Martin. I don’t feel safe with him here, and neither should any of you.”</p>
<p>Martha Kent hung her head and left the Principal's office, ignoring the calls from the desperate parents. There was nothing else she needed to hear from them, especially insults about her son. The door shut with a click, and her heels clipped the floor with each step.</p>
<p>She did her best to smile at Clark, but he’d always seen right through that. He sat up straight and looked her in the eyes, his soft voice rivaling his posture, “How did it go?”</p>
<p>She knew Clark had heard every word already and that lying would only make him defensive. “About as well as you’d expect, honey.” She patted his shoulder and ushered him to stand, “C’mon, let’s go home.”</p>
<p>The car ride was silent aside from the tapping of Clark’s blunt nails on the fabric of his jeans, and the shaking of his leg. He was such a nervous boy—her Clark—and it pained her heart to see him to try to hide how this whole thing was tearing him up inside. They normally played the radio, Clark usually flipped stations and rarely settled on just one, but silence was all they heard.</p>
<p>Jonathon Kent watched his wife pull up, and frowned as Clark bolted from the passenger seat and fled into the backyard. He stepped outside just as Martha shut off the car and gingerly stepped out, walking into her husband’s arms with a deep sigh. Exhaustion ran deep in her veins, and Jonathon wished he could take it away.</p>
<p>“That bad, huh?” He muttered into her brown locks, feeling her nod into his chest.</p>
<p>“Talk to him.” She begged, trying to keep the tears at bay, “I think…I think it’s time he…” They both turned to face the barn with heavy hearts, knowing this would be for the best.</p>
<p>Jonathon nodded and released Martha, shooting a thin-lipped smile her way as he made his way to the backyard. His heart thumped as he eyed his son, whose legs were hanging off the back of his pickup, shoulders hunched in his blue hoodie. As he got closer, he could hear the sniffles from his son.</p>
<p>“Clark.” His son turned and wiped away the wetness on his cheeks. “I just want to know what happened. I’m not mad, I promise.”</p>
<p>Jonathon sat next to his son and watched his boys lip quiver. His words came out with a thin veil of pain, “I wasn’t thinking, Dad.” A hiccup escaped his throat. “She was so scared… I just couldn’t let her <em>die</em>."</p>
<p>
  <em>The water was rising too fast—it was cold and soaked the kids instantly— and Clark watched as Connie grew frantic in her efforts to open the window enough to crawl out, or maybe she was trying her best to keep the water from flooding the already half submerged bus. Cries and screams rang through the drowning bus, and Clark swam, trying his best to make it to Connie.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Connie!” He yelled, reaching forward to snag her shirt and pull her away from the stream of flowing water.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Oh god, Clark! We’re gonna die!”  Her screams were shrill and almost hurt his ears, but the smell of her fear mixed with the smell of tears and piss coming off the other students had him looking for a way out.</em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>But the water was nearing the top of the bus, and all he could hear was her cries.</em>
</p>
<p>“Son, I thought we talked about this.” He started, patting his own thigh, “We have to keep what you can do a secret.”</p>
<p>“They were all going to drown, how could I have done nothing? They didn’t deserve to die.”</p>
<p>“Clark, I just—“ Jonathon paused, watching the sunshine across the cornfield that spanned miles upon miles. It was an array of reds that shined upon the old graying barn. “I just want to protect you, son. And sometimes, when people see something they don’t understand, they get scared and lash out. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if something happened to you.”</p>
<p>And finally, Clark asked the question that Jonathon had known would always come.</p>
<p>“Why am I like this, dad? Why am I so different from everyone else?”</p>
<p>Memories of finding their son, raising him to be the young man who sat at his side—through all the times he’d been different than the other kids, and knowing all of the hardships that were yet to come. It was almost enough to make him cry.</p>
<p>
  <em>Almost.</em>
</p>
<p>Jonathon stood up from the truck and stood in front of his son, placing both hands on his small shoulders. “I’m going to show you something, son, and it may make things make a bit more sense. But no matter what—“ He pressed his palm to his sons chest and smiled,</p>
<p>“<em>You</em> are <em>my</em> son.”</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Together</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Clark and Connie: 16 and in high school</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Have had this chapter ready for a week but my computer had to be wiped and there were many issues. Also got more ram so thats nice.</p><p>Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Settle down, class.” Mr. Rosenthal cleared his parched throat and demanded the attention of the twenty five student biology lab.</p><p>The paired desks of egregiously bored students stared at Mr. Rosenthal with a cross between pain and disgust, much like any sophomore would their ridiculously peppy teacher.</p><p>“Now,” He smiled, tapping perfectly pedicured nails on the oblong desk.</p><p>“This, of course, will be a partnered lab, but you and your partner are only required to choose from one of the three stations on my desk. Of the three choices there are Dissection—“ he waved his hand over the tub of dead frogs. Their skin was turning caked and grey. A mere half the class grinned at the prospect of frog guts.</p><p>“Observation—“ The next one was little tablets filled with desiccated butterflies. They were dead, of course, and had been pinned in place to allow their wings to be seen through the wonders of a microscope. A few more seemed interested in magnifying the colors of butterflies' wings.</p><p>“And lastly, blood testing!” that was the one that had the students biting their lips in anticipation. There was always one student every year that passed out at the sight of blood. One mousy haired girl claimed she could smell blood from five feet away.</p><p>“This lab will consist of the entire period, so please, take your time and put you and your partners name on the lab sheet. No name, no credit. And please,” he grinned, “Have fun.”</p><p>It was practically chaos for the following three minutes.</p><p>Connie blew out a tight breathe of air as the girl stationed to her right shot up and was off like a rocket, joining in at a table with every other obnoxious girl in the school. They were like a gaggle of airheaded clownfish. They reeked stupidity.  Her eyes took in the quickly dwindling sets of people that would help get through the dreadful lab.</p><p>Marvin, who never tied his shoes, was still alone at his desk, and it was better than having to tell Mr. Rosenthal that she’d rather work alone because working alone for an hour was practically a death sentence.</p><p>“Is this seat taken?” The warm timbre that wiggled her insides came from the previously occupied seat, and she gave a shy smile to the boy she was <em>sure </em>would have a partner.</p><p>“Clark.”</p><p>“Connie.” He mimicked, grinning with full teeth.</p><p>They stared at one another; Clark with his boyish charming smile and Connie trying not to roll her eyes at his picture perfect teeth.</p><p>“So, partner,” he snickered and pointed to the desk with few specimens still left—surprisingly, all the frogs were already taken. Good riddance.</p><p>“I know you were eager for the frogs but I don’t think I see anymore.” He playfully peered over her head at the desk a few paces away. “I was thinking of butterfly wings instead. Unless, of course, you’re really in favor of giving a few drops of blood for science.”</p><p>“Just get the damn butterflies, farm boy.” She snarked back, trying not to obviously stare at his backside as he stood and strolled to the front of the class. It hadn’t slipped her mind that Clark had been getting…well, <em>bigger</em>. </p><p>He’d hit a sort of strange growth spurts that hadn’t swept past her eyes, or few of the other girls as well. She had to stamp down jealous urges to hiss at other girls wandering eyes.</p><p>There were still people who whispered ‘<em>freak</em>’, and Peter Ross still nearly peed his pants every time he spotted Clark. But Connie just smiled as he walked back to their station with the lab report and one decaying butterfly. She reached under and pulled out their shared microscope, setting it between them.</p><p>The instructions seemed simple; describe what you see under the microscope in the most detailed way, and you can use adjectives as needed for the highest credit.</p><p>“Okay, seems easy enough.” She nodded along with Clark, nudging the microscope his way. “You want to look first?”</p><p>“Sure,” he agreed, sitting tall and leaning over. She watched him fiddle to get it just right. His thick fingers delicately worked the dials.</p><p>There was a light smattering of mindless chatter flowing through the room; most of the groups were knuckle deep in frog intestines, and one girl had already passed out at the sight of the blood welling up under her partner’s fingernail.  The rest of the class seemed to be faring well enough.</p><p>“It’s nice, I guess. I’m not really sure on what we’re supposed to be looking at, really.” He sheepishly explained while passing the microscope her way. The steel was cold and smooth, the silver dials reflecting in the overhead classroom light. Luckily, these were fairly easy to use. Her back straightened as she leaned up and over.</p><p>The first color was blue—<em>so much like Clark’s eyes—</em>and it easily bled into greens and purple hues. Thousands upon thousands of hairs lined the chitinous layers, each scale reflecting a newer and brighter hue that showed the true colors of the wings that fluttered through the sky. The composition of this little creature enticed her mind, offered questions yet answered. And yet, this once beautiful creature of flight was here—dead and lifeless under a microscope. </p><p>Nothing deserved this fate, even something as small as a butterfly.</p><p>“Mayfield.”</p><p>The roughness of Mr. Rosenthal jerked her away from the microscope. He loomed over her with an interested gaze. He was all too aware that she was the only student who aced bug-favored questions.</p><p>“I look forward to you and Kent’s analysis of the Pipevine Swallowtail.” He’d almost stepped away, but made an ‘ah ha’ gesture. “And don’t forget Mayfield, I have that list of internships you asked for. Just try and remember to ask me for it after class.”</p><p>“Internships?” Clark harshly whispered, waiting until Mr. Rosenthal was out of sight before going in, dark brows furrowed in irritation.</p><p>“You didn’t tell me anything about any internships.” His lips pursed and she could see his biceps clenching. “Where are they going to be? Are they here? Out of town?”</p><p>“Clark,” her hand moved to rest on his jean-covered thigh, thumb rubbing the thick fabric.</p><p>Her touch seemed to visibly loosen his tight muscles, though the disappointed brow still stood.</p><p>“I swear, I’ve been meaning to bring it up. It just sort of slipped my mind, I promise. And yes, technically, they’re all located here.” His eyes were no longer the calming sea but instead raging waters.</p><p>“It’s no big deal, Clark, seriously. I just—I asked Mr. Rosenthal last month if he could get me in contact with any at the local college's zoology or entomology department. That was it. Hell, I don’t even know if I’ll take it. I know—I should’ve told you and I’m a terrible friend for keeping it from you."</p><p>The corner of his lip twitched as she bestowed a glittering smile upon his tense face. She always knew how to make him feel better.</p><p>“Fine,” he gave in. “But you don’t have to keep things from me, Connie. I’ll support you, no matter what you do.”</p><p>The lab report took up the rest of the class time; Clark smirking from the corner of her eye every time she used another over descriptive adjective to describe the different layers of colors in their specimens' wings. He’d gracefully written his name under hers.  </p><p>“What’s your plan for the rest of the day? Anything fun?” The report slipped from her hand onto Mr. Rosenthal’s desk.</p><p>“Nothing much, probably. I have that paper for History done but I need to print it out in the library tomorrow. But besides that, I’m not sure. You?”</p><p>They lingered outside the classroom as students filed out for the end of the day. Clark leaned against the lockers, shrugging, “I think my dad’s gotten it into his head that the roof needs fixing. I’ll need to be there to make sure he doesn’t break his back.”</p><p>“Oh god,” she tried not to cringe at the thought of Clark’s dad solo fixing the roof.</p><p>“Don’t let him think he’s some super tough guy who can’t break his back from falling off a ladder.” She badgered, turning to see that no more students were leaving the lab. “This should only take a sec.”</p><p>He nodded at her back, tapping his nails on the locker.</p><p>“Ah!” Mr. Rosenthal cried, scrambling to organize the multiple lab reports. They were eventually stuffed in a drawer with a half eaten lunch. “Let me just get that folder for you.” She thought she heard him mumble ‘wherever that might be’, but shrugged it off with a nod.</p><p>The folder was eventually found underneath two piles of ungraded biology assignments, and two uneaten bologna sandwiches that smelled riper than a cow field.</p><p>“Since there’s no colleges located in Smallville, I reached a little over to Lawrence and got a hold of a few old friends.”</p><p>He explained and handed over the beige envelope. “There’s a bunch of contact information, hours, all that good stuff. I think most of them will be more than happy to hear from you. It’s not everyday a bright sophomore with a knack for creepy crawlies asks for internship help.”</p><p>A flutter of excitement rang through her belly; this envelope could open so many doors in the small tiny field of work that she’d marked as hers.</p><p>“I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Rosenthal. This really means a lot.” She gushed, starting to turn. She couldn’t wait to tell Clark, and maybe they could look at the contents of the folder together.</p><p>“Actually, before you go,” he intervened, sidestepping the desk, “I think it’s within my teaching rights to give you some personal advice.”</p><p>“There’s a ton of good names on that list… but there is one that I thought of just scratching out.” He rubbed his chin, “You’re a good kid, Connie, and I don’t see many like you come and go. Your grades, the way you took Clark under your wing; the colleges will be lining up to take you.”</p><p>His words of praise brightened her mood—except the Clark thing sort of made her eye twitch.</p><p>“But, I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t warn you about Lexcorp.”</p><p>
  <em>Warn me?</em>
</p><p>“They are an up and coming brand from Metropolis; they mostly stay in the STEM categories, which you also fall into by a very small margin. And they’re always scouting for new people to bring into their… <em>labs.” </em>He’s struggled to find the right word to describe what they did.</p><p>“Lexcorp—or at least, Lionel Luther—doesn’t believe in following the rules of science. And I’ve heard through the grapevine that they have questionable methods of obtaining their information.”</p><p>He turned to stare hard into her honey eyes, “I don’t want someone like you getting mixed up in their business. You’re better than they are, by a long shot.”</p><p><em>But what exactly do they do, </em>she was tempted to ask.</p><p>But the look in his eye was enough to have her nodding and fleeing the biology classroom, envelope scrunched in her hands. There was clearly more to the story—or history—behind Lexcorp, but she knew better than to butt her nose into that. Those suspicions were better held off for another day.</p><p>“How did it go?” His words held no smile but instead the furrowed brow of worry. She was glad he hadn’t heard anything.</p><p>“It went fine,” she lied, holding up the envelope. “Got what I came for.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The rusty old red truck rumbled along the dusty road.</p><p>“Do you see any you like?” Clark inquired. The old steering wheel cover squeaked under his grip.</p><p>“Well, Professor Collins has a pretty good background,” she replied, trying to read while the car kept an unsteady beat. “But maybe Dr. Ni would be better; she has a Masters <em>and </em>a PhD. What do you think?”</p><p>“I think you know what you’re doing and don’t <em>need </em>my opinion,” he offered. The car came to a soft stop at a red light. He turned to give her a beaming smile that displayed his pearly whites. “I don’t know why you’re so worried about this. Mr. Rosenthal said any one of them would be lucky to have you.”</p><p>“Yeah, you’re right…wait—How did you know that?” She dubiously questioned. He’d been <em>outside </em>the entire time, and unless he had the ears of a bat, then he shouldn’t have known that.</p><p>It was almost funny to see shock on Clark’s face—the redness of his ears and the flickering of his baby blues—and he sputtered, “I just assumed he said that about you—because it’s true. You’re the best student out there.”</p><p>It was a cheap save on his part, and the desire to call him on his bullshit was right behind her front teeth.</p><p>
  <em>Lying farm boy.</em>
</p><p>She loudly sniffed, “Alright. I guess… I believe you. Because if you <em>were </em>eavesdropping, even though you obviously weren’t because you respect my privacy, then you would’ve also heard all the ominous stuff he was saying Lexcorp.”</p><p>“If I <em>had</em> been eavesdropping, which I <em>hadn’t</em>, then I definitely would have heard him tell you that you’re better than Lexcorp, by a long shot.”</p><p>
  <em>You goddam eavesdropper!</em>
</p><p>They bickered the rest of the ride to the Kent Farm, Clark hopping out first to run to Connie’s side. Something about being a Kent, or maybe his inner gentlemen, meant he opened every door for her. She liked that about him.</p><p> “Your bag, my lady,” he mimicked an obscure English accent, taking her heavy backpack and lugging it across his thick shoulder. That boy could carry a mountain if he tried. She hopped out of the truck and followed him into the Kent home, waving to a working Jonathon a few feet away.</p><p>The screen door had seen better days, and they made sure to be gentle when opening and closing it. The floorboards creaked underneath Clark’s weight, and Martha looked up from her crocheting.</p><p>“Hi, honey,” she beamed at Clark. Her motherly eyes look to Connie, “Hey, sweetie. Will you be staying for dinner?”</p><p>“I’d love to, Mrs. Kent.”</p><p>Martha rolled her eyes, “We’re like family, call me Martha.”</p><p>Clark cut in, “We’ll be upstairs doing homework. Call if you need anything.”</p><p>Martha watched the two of them trail upstairs, wondering if they’d want the baby booties she’d been knitting since they were kids.</p><p>“I thought you had to help your dad.” They shut the door to Clark’s bedroom and started dropping their bags on the floor. Connie kicked off her shoes and flopped back onto his plaid quilt covered bed.</p><p>“I can stay here while you go help him for a while. Ms. Paterson assigned a ton of reading due on Monday—I guess I can try to get ahead, unlike some of us.”</p><p>“Oh, so now we’re making jokes?” Clark playfully growled, relishing in Connie’s delightful squeal as he hopped on the bed. It bounced under his weight and she allowed herself to be moved under his body.</p><p>He straddled her thighs and grinned with full teeth. “I wasn’t aware of your future as a comedian. I’ll have to make sure I see you perform.”</p><p>She tried to swat his bicep, as well as move out from being trapped under his thick—and luscious—thighs, but he gripped her hand with ease and pinned it to the soft sheets. There was determination in his eyes that made her body feel tight.</p><p>“I’ve always been funny, farm boy,” she teased. The hand on her wrist grabbed the other free one and held them firmly. He’d effectively pinned her to his bed.</p><p>She gulped and tried to stay still, trying not to let the weight resting on her lower half affect any rationality in her brain. It felt so right to be here—<em>under Clark and at his mercy</em>—and warmth spread through her lower half. Was this desire for Clark to finally make the first move? Or fear that disappointment would grace his lovely face if she wasn’t what he expected?</p><p>“You’re thinking too hard.” He softly whispered, leaning down to the nose at her forehead. His grip on her wrists left, and instead those hands traveled down to skim her waist, hovering.</p><p>“There’s a lot to think about.” Her lip quivered as his lips pressed softly to her crown, chills spreading across her skin. She’d be a liar if she tried to say that images of Clark doing worse things to her had plagued years of dreams. He was<em> Clark.</em></p><p>
  <em>Her Clark.</em>
</p><p>The silence was enough to stop his ministrations; the soft lips pulled back and soothing oceans with a crinkled brow waited. “If you don’t want this, just tell me—“</p><p>Her upper body had struggled from under his tree trunk thighs, surging up and claiming the softest lips this side of Kansas had ever seen. It felt like touching clouds, and breathing in a warm clear sky. Nothing felt out of place in his arms—kissing him—and a low moan echoed in her chest as his strong arms came up to pull her closer. They were both inexperienced, and their lips moved sloppily against one another. Neither dared to add tongue to the equation.</p><p>The position was awkward for both of them,  and they broke apart with a string of saliva connecting them.</p><p>
  <em>“Clark! Come help your father before he breaks his back!”</em>
</p><p>Crooked smiles stretched across the two teen faces; Clark shakily stood—and she tried not to blush at the sizeable tent in his pants—and stepped into his shoes.</p><p>Connie sat up and stupidly coughed, trying to fix her rumpled tee, “I guess—I’ll get started on the—the reading.”</p><p>Clark smirked, “Yes, the reading. Try not to have too much fun without me.”</p><p>“I couldn’t if I tried.”</p><p>He’d taken three steps with the doorknob in his hand, ready to go help his Dad from causing a too early death, when Connie yelled—“Clark?”</p><p>“Yes?” he asked, eyebrow raised and ears open.</p><p>A beat passed.</p><p>“<em>I love you.”</em></p><p>A precious smile crept onto his face, and her heart nearly burst at his response.</p><p>“<em>You’re my world, Connie.”</em></p><p>The door shut with a click and the largest pillow on the bed quickly became home to Connie’s screams of joy.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter 3 is 97% done!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Older Now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Connie and Clark; 18, high school graduation.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Suprised to see this has like kudos, I appreciate everyone whose reading this! Hope you all enjoy this chapter!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Pomp and Circumstance blares through the stadium grade speakers as the high school seniors walk in a steady line across the green football field, each gracefully taking a seat in the white lined chairs as gusts of light wind nearly blow off more than a few white caps. The graduating class of 98’ consisted of 79 students, almost all of the girls donning a pair of wedged sandals, seeing as a pointed heel would’ve slid right into the grass, and almost all of the boys wearing obnoxiously colored sneakers.</p><p>Principal Johnson tapped the mic that was strapped to the brown podium and cleared his throat, “Fellow Graduates; It is my greatest pleasure to see you off into the world, and knowing that all of you will make the world a better place. Hardships, and tough times tried to keep you down, but you all strode for success… and look where you are.”</p><p>Claps echoed the stands as proud parents rooted and hollered for their children.</p><p>“I am with deep certainty that each and every one of you fine adults will go off from this school, and follow the dreams you’ve spent years creating. Some of you will go to college, actually, I hope more than some,” he joked.</p><p>“And others may travel the world and see all of what it has to offer. And well, I know there are some of you out there who still haven’t the slightest idea on who they want to be. And that’s okay!”</p><p>A ripple of chuckles went through the class of graduates, “You don’t have to know what you want to do; you just have to be willing to try. All of you have the will to achieve greatness.”</p><p>“You are not defined by the person you used to be, or even the person you will become, but by your actions and how you impact the world.”</p><p>The band started up again and the graduates clapped and hollered for the Principal. “Congratulations Class of 98’!”</p><p>All of the students leapt up and tossed their caps into the sky, friends hugging one another in celebration and utter happiness. Connie had just stood up when two strong arms slipped around her waist and lifted her sky high, eliciting a yelp of surprise. The grip was strong and the biceps she reached down to grasp could only belong to one overly muscled but still baby faced country boy.</p><p>“Clark!” Her yelp went unheard as he boisterously laughed and started to make his way out of the crowd of overzealous students, dodging the people engaged in bro fives and girls with running make-up and sobbing over friends. His hands felt warm and large on her stomach. It was like being held by a teddy bear.</p><p>From this height above the rest of the crowd, the figures of Martha and Jonathon Kent were easy to spot, and Connie failed to stifle a giggle and the arms holding her sped up in a bumpy jog. It was more than difficult to keep her hair from flying all over the place as she bobbled along. He could be like an overgrown puppy at times.</p><p> “Guys!” Martha yelled, “Over here!"</p><p>Clark stopped short in front of his parents. A grunt left his clenched lips as he set Connie back onto her two-inch wedges. There was no time for her to enjoy being regular height, or say a grateful ‘hello’ to either Kent. </p><p>The thick forearm of Clark slipped around her cushy waist like a slippery serpent.</p><p>The smiling face of Martha warmed her heart, “Look at you two,” and her voice was as warm as an apple eye. Being around Martha used to make Connie crave her own motherly affection, but by now, Martha was the best she was going to get.</p><p>“Thanks for coming, you two,” Connie gushed. Her own arm wiggled from the space between her and Clark’s body, eventually slithering to cup his waist. They looked like the perfect couple.</p><p>“Please, we wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Martha insisted. Reaching into her mint green purse she pulled out a handheld camera. The two graduates groaned, but only Clark spoke up.</p><p>“Really, Mom?”</p><p>Martha waved him off, “Oh, hush up, Clark. Your mother only sees her babies graduate once, and if that means a few pictures, then you’ll be smiling for every one. Now, get closer you two.”</p><p>Any closer and they’d never come apart.</p><p>The flash of the camera shined in their eyes, and it was over as quick as it started. Connie smiled until it hurt, and tried to keep any redness from her cheeks as the hand on her back started to rub in a slow circle. Warmth blossomed in her lower back, and god, she could practically <em>taste </em>Clark’s mischievous smile. He knew exactly what he was doing.</p><p>“So, are you two up for some brunch?” Martha asked. “Or if you’d like, I could make us something at home.”</p><p>Connie bit the inside of her cheek; it was such a bad time to bring it up. They were all enjoying each other’s company; they didn’t need her to bring up the family drama that lurked at her home. But it was better to get it done with than avoid it any longer.</p><p>“Actually,” She interjected, slightly moving away from Clark’s warmth. “I wanted to ask if you’d run me by my place. I promised my dad I’d drop by after graduation. You know; show him the diploma and all. It’ll just take a few minutes.”</p><p>The three Kent’s were silent for a few seconds.</p><p>“Are you sure about that, Connie?” Jonathon coaxed with a raised brow. She could taste the questioning worry in his voice, but brushed it off and nodded with a thin-lipped smile.</p><p>“Yeah, I think he’ll be happy to see me. Its…” she thought for a moment. </p><p>“It’s been a while.”</p><p>The ride away from the High School was tenser than fly trapped in a spider’s web. Martha and Jonathon sat in the front while Clark sat in the back next to Connie. There was nothing playing on the radio, and all the windows were up. Her hand rested on the middle seat, fingers strumming an irregular beat. Normally, Clark’s hand would intertwine with hers, but his were straining in a tight grip against his thigh.</p><p>The tightness of his jaw ripped at her soul. It was no mystery that Clark hated—no<em>, despised </em>Walter Mayfield. Maybe, an emotion deeper than she understood, something darker than disgust and rage connected Clark and Walter. She breathed in deep, trying to find the courage to reach over and hold his hand. But it never happened.</p><p>The Mayfield farm was more decrepit than any of them remembered.</p><p>Jonathon turned off the car and turned in his seat. “Do you want me to come in with you?” He offered.</p><p>It was tempting but she shook her head and undid the old leather seatbelt. It was hard for her to ignore the way Clark was visibly holding himself back from saying anything, and turning the car handle seemed to hurt worse than a third degree burn.</p><p>“I’ll only be a second,” she promised, shutting the door and moving away from the car. The air smelt dry; drier than the dirt under her wedges. It was thick and felt like it could clog her throat if she breathed it too long. The shining sun blinded her eyes and she kept her head down on the trek to the front door—taking no mind to the even creakier porch steps and missing rocking chair.</p><p>The brown door seemed scarier now than ever before. She had no house key; there was no point to having access to somewhere you didn’t live anymore. Her knuckles rapped against the aged wood with the hand not gripping the diploma, teeth gnawing into her bottom lip as seconds passed.</p><p>A crash echoed inside the house and Connie readied herself as the lock turned from the other side. <em>It’s now or never, </em>she thought, standing straight with her head held high.</p><p>The door was lurched open with a gust of air, and her eyes widened at the sight of her Walter Mayfield. Time hadn’t been kind to him, and neither had the glass bottles littering the floor. Dirty blonde hair, missing teeth and the look of a crazed man were what any regular person would have seen; but she just saw her <em>dad.</em></p><p>“Hi, Dad.”</p><p>His left eye twitched something ferocious.</p><p>“<em>Connie.”</em></p><p>His voice had become rougher than gravel; probably smoked twice as much as he drank. Dirt caked his fingernails and a dried redness smattered the inside of his elbow. He was the picture of being at the bottom, and Connie instantly hated herself for ever coming back here. <em>This was a mistake, </em>she said to herself.</p><p>“I finished high school, Dad.” She held up the white diploma for a split second, watching his eyes follow its movement—up and down, “I—I thought you’d want to know.”</p><p>Silence hung between the two Mayfield’s; Connie holding her breathe with trepidation, and Walter staring silently. Neither had moved from their positions on the porch, and all three Kent’s were watching from the car window. Just in case Walter tried something.</p><p>It wouldn’t be the first time.</p><p>“Aren’t you going to say anything to me, Dad?” she tried to coax an answer from the man she’d once called her father. But he hadn’t been a man in a long time, or ever really. Trying to see past his shoulders into the run down house was the last thing she wanted to do. Too many memories—bad ones mostly—lied inside those molded walls.</p><p>Then finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Walter opened his mouth.</p><p>“<em>Go ‘way, Connie.”</em></p><p>And he shut the door in her face, the slam echoing through her head long after he’d walked away from the last piece of living flesh he had. Hiccups tried to take home in her throat, and a river tried to flow from her honey pot eyes. </p><p>Was there any timeline that she’d imagined where he’d welcomed her with open arms? What lie had made her believe he’d be <em>happy </em>to see her? It was always going to go like these… and yet, it hurt so much worse.</p><p>Warm arms—and the scent of chopped wood and the freshness of dewy wet grass on an early warm sunrise—roamed the air around her clouded mind. It was soothing and sweet, to be in the arms of Clark. He enveloped her in his bear like arms and held her close.</p><p>It was a space she never wanted to leave. His clean-shaven face found home in the soft sweetness of her neck, and a solemn kiss found her skin. His lips could chase away any demons.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into her skin, nose rubbing against her warmth. </p><p>They stayed that way for only a few seconds and Clark gingerly turned and led them back to the truck. Each step felt like carrying pounds of cement, but with Clark around, she would never fall.</p><p>His strong hands sat her inside the truck and shut the door, running around to hop in himself, grateful to leave behind the Mayfield farm in a cloud of dust.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It was nearing 9, and Clark was already upstairs waiting in his pajamas when Jonathon rested against the doorway of the kitchen, eyes watching Connie.</p><p>His presence visibly scared her, and she jumped—clutching her heart, “Jesus, you scared the daylights out of me.” Her hip leisurely shut the fridge, two pieces of blueberry pie topped with smooth whipped cream jammed onto one plate.</p><p>“Did you need something? Clark and I were going to watch some movies till one of us passed out.”</p><p>A beat of silence passed between them, Jonathon eventually clearing his throat. “I’m sorry about your dad.”</p><p>“Oh.” That hadn’t been what she’d expected to hear.</p><p>“It’s alright, really. I—I should’ve expected it.” The pie plate dinged as she rested it on the cloth-covered table. “I think it would’ve been weird if he <em>wasn’t </em>like that. It takes a lot for people to change, and I just—I wanted…”</p><p>“He may not show it, but I bet he’s proud to have a daughter like you.” Jonathon interjected. “Martha and I sometimes wish you’d been ours.”</p><p>“I don’t think it would be in my best interest to be Clark’s <em>sister.”</em></p><p>They both let out a breathy laugh. The whipped cream on the chilled pie was starting to run onto the plate.</p><p>“There’s something I want to show you.” Jonathon said, stepping from the wall and making his way to the backdoor. “It’s been a long time coming, and there’s no better time than the present."</p><p>“O—Okay?” she slowly muttered. “Is this the Kent dead body that you guys keep tied up in the barn?”</p><p>He turned and raised a solid brow, urging her to follow him outside. She tried not to think of where they were going; there was no way this could be anything bad. This was Clark’s dad; he was the nicest man in town. But as they stalked along the shortly trimmed grass, and the cold chill set into her bare feet, the possibilities flew through her mind.</p><p>The thumbnail of her left hand was bitten particularly hard as Jonathon Kent pried open the barn doors, the smell of hay and obstructing her senses. </p><p>Her eyes closed as clouds of dust rushed into the air—no ones cleaned this place in ages—and opened to watch Jonathon reach up for rope hanging from the ceiling.</p><p>She gingerly stepped onto the wooden floor and tried not to shiver; it was freezing.  Her eyes followed the rope, hands tugging to open to floorboards just in front of them.</p><p>“What’s down there?” she asked shakily, a sense of slight… it wasn’t fear, but a crossbreed between dread and nervousness. They didn’t actually have a dead body right?</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“<em>What</em>?”</p><p>“This—“ his finger pointed at the space hidden under the barn, “—is what we found Clark in. He was just a baby with a set of lungs that wouldn’t stop crying unless Martha held him.”</p><p>Connie still couldn’t really understand what she was seeing, or what he was saying.</p><p>Out of all the things that the Kent’s were hiding—every little town had families with secrets—but the secret being that Clark was from <em>space</em> was a little out there.</p><p>“So… Clark <em>isn’t</em> Martha’s?” She looked at Jonathan. “And you two found him in this, 18 years ago?”</p><p>He nodded with the most serious face she’d ever seen, but the words spilled out like a floodgate, “I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but you have to know how this sounds. Right?”</p><p>“It’s why we’ve never told anyone.” He explained, wiping a hand down his withered face. “We kept this from Clark for most of his life. Martha and I never wanted him to know about where he comes from, but then the accidents started piling up. We didn’t have a choice.”</p><p>“You two did your best to protect Clark.” She sympathized.</p><p>He stepped down into the hole, and Connie quickly followed. Hey eyes took in the glossy ship, and she found herself reaching forward and placing her palm against the sleek metal. It was cool and smooth, and her palm leisurely moved along to the more patterned area, feeling the bumps and grooves. It could’ve easily been mistaken for some type of rare metal, but a part of her was starting to believe that this was a <em>spaceship.</em></p><p>“You’ve kept a spacecraft under your barn for 18 years…” she gulped, “And Clark is…”</p><p>For some strange reason—in some deep corner of her brain—this wasn’t that crazy. It wasn’t like Clark hadn’t been different from the other kids from an early age, why he seemed to be bigger and stronger than every other kid in their graduating class.</p><p>
  <em>How he pulled a bus from a river.</em>
</p><p>“Clark’s an alien.” She whispered into the air, nodding at Jonathon with wide eyes. Her lungs blew out all of their air. “<em>Clark</em> is an <em>alien</em>.”</p><p>“Please don’t hold this against him.” Jonathon added. “He wanted to tell you the second I showed this to him, but I told him he couldn’t.”</p><p>Her scoff nearly cut him off, “I don’t think I would’ve handled it as well as he did.”</p><p>“But you are now.” He grinned.</p><p>“Because I lo—“</p><p>
  <em>Because I love him</em>
</p><p>“I love him, Mr. Kent.” Her hand retreated from the aircraft, and she stepped away. “And nothing can change that.”</p><p>“I don’t think I’ve ever been more certain about anything in my life, and that is that I love Clark, and this—“ she longed to hold Clark in her arms, “—only makes me want to protect him more.”</p><p>The silence of night stood between them.</p><p>Her words shone brighter than a sunset on a summer’s day, and Jonathon found an itch of smile forming on his face. They both stared at the tiny ship, but Connie dared to reach forward and finger a gleaming piece of metal. It was freezing cold to the touch, but as smooth as polished silver. It was shaped like a stake that punctured dry soil, but the top had a strange symbol. It easily popped off of the exterior of the ship.</p><p>It looked like an S.</p><p>She held it up to the moonlight, “Do you know what it means?”</p><p>But he shrugged his shoulders and pulled the lever to lower the barn floor hatch, both of them climbing out to watch the floor close up again. “It was in there with Clark, so I’m guessing he’d have a better idea than me.” </p><p>“How much does he know about where he comes from?”</p><p>Jonathon turned back and stared as she rubbed the black tool in between her fingertips. Something felt right about letting her have it. He nodded to the barn door with a grin, “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”</p><p>A beaming smile stretched across her face and she tore through the barn, uncaring of the hay digging into the soles of her feet. The doors flew open with a gust of chilly wind, and heaving breaths winded her chest and she looked across the grassy path.</p><p>
  <em>Clark</em>
</p><p>He hadn’t changed out of his pajamas—his bare feet stuck in the freezing grass while his hands wrung at his sides. The moonlight shined on the space between them, and she ran towards the sea, thrown into its arms and enveloped in its soothing blue. His arms enveloped her like a blanket, tugging her up and off the grass, holding her close.</p><p>It truly was the best feeling in the world, to be in Clark Kent’s arms. It was warmer than you’d imagine, it felt safer than you could dare to dream, and it felt like <em>home.</em></p><p>He gently set her back on the ground, still keeping her close, “Seeing as you’re not running for the hills, I’m going to assume you’re taking your best friend being an alien pretty well.”</p><p><em>Best friend, </em>her rational mind snarled, <em>Lies.</em></p><p>“I mean, I’ll admit, for a moment there I was planning to call the feds and demand a place on their alien tasks unit.” She explained with a giggle, snuggling into his arms with a sigh. His warmth chased away the cold.</p><p>“Every single time I pictured telling you about this part of my life,” he reminisced, “It never once went like this.”</p><p>Her crown rubbed against his soft chest, humming lightly. “And exactly how had you pictured it?”</p><p>“I’d imagined there being a lot more screaming.” A nod to the cornfield, “And I’m glad you aren’t trying to run away. I’d hate to have to chase you down.”</p><p>A flare of challenge erupted in her gut, and she pulled back to raise a brow at him, “Is that a challenge, farm boy?” It would’ve been fruitless to try and escape his arms, and besides, getting smacked in the face with corn was not ideal.</p><p>They stared at one another, and their hearts beat in sync.</p><p>There was no fear in her soul—<em>her heart</em>—and there was no doubt that this was the same Clark that pulled her from a watery grave, that held her on sleepless nights and whispered sweet words, that gave her a home and a family to call her own. She was his world, but he was hers too.</p><p>“I can hear your heartbeat.” Clark confessed as his hands rubbed her soft hips.</p><p>“It’s faster when you’re nervous and softer when you sleep.”   </p><p>His hands rubbed her shoulders, “When I was first learning to control my senses, Mom told me to make the world small, to find something to ground myself.”</p><p>“The sound of your heart helped me hone my senses.” He picked up her chin and gazed into her eyes, “<em>You </em>helped me.”</p><p>“I—I didn’t know, Clark.” The right words seemed lost for her, “If I’d known, I would’ve done anything to help you.”</p><p>“But you did,” he cut her off, thumb rubbing the cheek under his palm. “You’ve always been there for me, Connie, and I love you.”</p><p>“I’ve always loved you, Clark.” She squeezed his tighter, “And not even being a freaky alien baby can change that.”</p><p>A squeal of laughter erupted from her throat as Clark lifted her over his shoulder with ease and bolted into the house, laughter echoing across the farm.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Gone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Gone, Gone... Gone.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please look at the end notes</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was a cold day on the Kent Farm.</p><p>Clouds covered the once shining sky and a cool breeze floated over the stalks of corn. The weather forecast after a tornado was always dismal—<em> dreary </em>—and today was no different.</p><p>There were no laughing children walking along the indents in the dirt, no dogs barking and chasing any pests that strayed too close to the prize crop.</p><p>Plates of casseroles lined the dining room table of the Kent home; tuna salad, peach cobbler, chicken bakes stuffed with greasy cheese that bubbled something horrendous, vegetarian platters filled with under ripe veggies that had been picked too early, and more than enough variations of blueberry pie to last a lifetime.</p><p>Nearly every plate was untouched.</p><p>Martha’s pie at the far end of the table—crammed right between Ms. Ross’s vile noodle bake and Mr. Everfields positively pungent lasagna—was the only platter that had portions missing. Most would be delivered to the one shelter in town, but a handful would meet their end down the garbage disposal. No one should be burdened with this many casseroles.</p><p>Everyone had left the wake already—there was no need to stay longer than necessary. There had been a few blank eyed hugs, some cheek kisses that left red stains, and only a few legitimate sniffles amongst the crowd.</p><p>But now, all was quiet in the Kent house.</p><p>“Do you need any help?” Connie spoke into the kitchen air, leaning against the doorframe as Martha turned to look at her with a solemn smile.</p><p>“No, no, don’t worry about this, honey. Why don’t you go sit with Clark?” she looked up to the ceiling with a frown, “I think he could use you right now a lot more than I can.”</p><p>“Martha, please,” Connie begged with a soft smile. “I think Clark needs a minute alone after all this. Please, let me help.”</p><p>Connie stepped into the tiled kitchen, tight heeled shoes tapping against the hard floor, putting a hand on Martha’s shoulder.</p><p>Martha bit her lip and thought for a moment before nodding with deflated shoulders. “I guess you’re right.” They both took in the grotesque amount of food they’d received. “We can put the keepers in the fridge.”</p><p>The first one to slide into the fridge was the half portion of blueberry pie that would most likely be consumed first. Connie scanned the table—Clark liked the sweeter things but hated apricots and rhubarb with a passion, but Martha enjoyed macaroni salads but hated the way Jean Jones added a vile amount of raisins and raw red onion—so there were only around five containers that would be saved.</p><p>Connie turned and found the reusable Tupperware containers, filling them with the spoils of good intention, easily stacking them in the fridge.</p><p>“Is that all we’re keeping?” Martha questioned with a frown, “I’d feel bad throwing this much food out. Who knows how hard they all worked on this.” She sighed and reached forward to lift a glass container filled with—</p><p>“What even <em> is </em>that?” Connie snorted.</p><p>“I…I don’t know, exactly.” Martha set it down and looked at Connie.</p><p>Both women burst into a set of giggles at the unrecognizable piece of food. It quickly met its fate down the drain, and slowly they packed up the good and threw out the bad, with a few being labeled to go into town.</p><p>There were only two trays left when Connie finally blurted out, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”</p><p>Martha stopped and turned to the girl she’d grown to see as her daughter. “What are you talking about, Connie? There wasn’t anything you could’ve done.”</p><p>She turned back to slowly spoon the cobbler into the container. “It wasn’t any of our faults. This was just… it was an accident.”</p><p>“Can I—“ she cleared her throat and let out a breath. “How did it happen?”</p><p>The square container snapped shut as Martha spooned in the last of the peach cobbler, setting down the large black sugar coated spoon. “I assumed Clark would’ve told you.”</p><p>But Connie shook her head, “I didn’t ask him. He seemed like—“</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The tornado warning had blared on the ratty TV screen in the living room while Connie had paced a hole into the floor. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> They’d been gone for almost three hours; they’d just missed the warning, and there was no way she could see if they were okay. At least they usually listened to the radio and radios covered stuff like this, right? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> There was no way they were going to drive into a tornado… </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Right? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The sound of the beat up truck entered her ears and she was up like lightning, running to the front door and wrenching it open. Her feet bolted down the steps and came to a halt at the sight of Clark stumbling out of the car. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Hey! Are you guys all right? There was a tornado warning….Clark?” Her eyes darted between Martha, the empty drivers seat, and Clark. “Where’s your dad?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Her feet were stuck to the dirt as Clark stood and turned to face her, his face red and eyes wetter than the rainy sky. The hair that was normally curly and quaffed looked as though he’d run his fingers a million times over it, and her heart longed to know— </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He was on her in a split second, his face stuffed into her neck as his warm tears stained her skin. She was vaguely aware of Martha helping the dog out of the car, and shutting the door, but couldn’t bear to leave his arms. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> There were words mumbled into her neck, “What happened, Clark?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It took a few more tries before she understood his words. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I could’ve saved him.” </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>“—If I know my son as well as I think I do, he’s blaming himself.” Martha rubbed her clammy hands on the apron wrapped around her waist. “Come on, let’s sit.”</p><p>Connie plopped down next to Martha, knees facing the older woman with her hands balled in the crease of her lap, waiting patiently. Martha sighed with her lips in a hard line.</p><p>“Jonathon was at it again—about how Clark should stay and keep the farming business alive instead of going away to college. And you know Clark—he can get so emotional with Jonathon. They said some things that they both didn’t mean, and then we saw the tornado.”</p><p>“We’d forgotten Lucy in the car.” Her voice started to break as water lined her lids, “Jonathon went back for her and sent Clark and I under an overpass. We watched it happen—“</p><p>Connie reached over and squeezed Martha’s hand, her own eyes growing wet.</p><p>“He couldn’t make it back, and Clark—he was ready to save his father. He took a step forward, in front of all those people, but Jonathon told him to stop.” The air in the room felt cold and stale as Martha let a few tears drop.</p><p>“We’ve always done our best to keep Clark safe from the world—and Jonathon knew the choice he was making by telling him to not show his powers in front of the town.” A sad smile crossed her aging face.</p><p>“I bet he’s lookin’ down on us right now, screaming that we shouldn’t be mourning what we can’t change.”</p><p>The two women let silence of the living room wash over them, listening as a steady stream of rainfall fell from the sky.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Connie stood in front of Clark’s door, hand raised with knuckles poised to knock lightly on the withered wood. </p><p>The wood was cool under her knuckles as she knocked, and barely a moment passed as the door was wrenched open. A disheveled Clark who’d changed from the funeral suit—it had been too tight around the ankles and snug around his biceps—to the much more casual jeans and white shirt. There was redness around his eyes that had her stepping into his chest and enveloping him close.</p><p>The door shut behind her as Clark stepped back into the room while holding her close. They stayed in each other’s embrace for a while; Connie with her ear to his chest and listening to his rapid heart, and Clark breathing in her soothing scent and wishing the rest of the world could just fall away. </p><p>“It wasn’t your fault, you know that, right?” They’d easily moved to the bed; Clark rested his back against the headboard, Connie laying between his large thighs.</p><p>“I don’t think I do.” She opened her mouth to argue, but he shot her down with that crinkled glare. “I was right there, Connie. It would’ve taken seconds, and none of this would be happening. “ </p><p>She turned in his lap and clenched her teeth, “Yes, there wouldn’t be a funeral, but instead the whole town would be calling the police to arrest you for doing something that no regular man can.” </p><p>Her hand moved to rest on his t-shirt clad stomach. “You’re not a regular man, Clark.”</p><p>“Does it matter what they think? How long am I supposed to be hiding this? Forever?” His voice grew tight and Connie grunted as he casually stood from the bed and left her to fall over.</p><p>“What if it’s you next time? Am I just supposed to stand by and watch the woman I love die?” He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “You can’t ask me to do that, Connie.”</p><p>Arguing with Clark was like kicking a puppy; it left a sick feeling in your stomach.</p><p>“I’m not saying that, Clark.” She reasoned. “I’m just—you barely know what you can even do. Your whole life you’ve been trying to be this regular guy, Clark Kent…”</p><p>Her sock clad feet creaked against the floor as she stood, walking over to Clark and meeting his agitated blues. “What if you’re meant to be <em> more </em> than that?”</p><p>“But—“</p><p>“Clark,” she sighed. The words almost felt clogged in her stomach, sticking to the sides of her throat on their way up. “I love you, and nothing can change that. And I’m so sorry your Dad is gone.”</p><p>Her voice began to waver. “But there’s no amount of guilt or hatred for yourself that can bring him back. He knew you loved him.”</p><p>Those seemed to be the magic words that brought Clark to his knees; his hair rubbed against her black dress, his hands clenched behind her knees, his tears staining the soft fabric of her dress. The sorrowful sniffles and sobs echoed in her ears but she simply rubbed his curls and let him clutch her close.</p><p>Losing a father was always something she knew all too well.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Five letters lined the kitchen table.</p><p>Gotham University—STEM Major: Waitlisted</p><p>Metropolis University—STEM Major: Waitlisted with Scholarship pending (Interview Required)</p><p> </p><p>Smallville City College—Political Science (Her field of STEM was null)—Declined with no scholarship</p><p> </p><p>Ivy University—STEM Major—Accepted (with no scholarship)!</p><p> </p><p>Burnside College—STEM Major—Denied!</p><p> </p><p>Connie wanted to sink into the floor; they always said high school grades mattered until they didn’t—and it wasn’t as though she didn’t have pretty good grades. Hell, SCC had rejected her! Her own city college!</p><p>“I’m a failure.” Connie sadly chirped into the wind. “I’ll stay here and sell corn all day.”</p><p>Martha wouldn’t even humor her; “No you’re not. Look,” she pointed out the pearl white letter from Ivy College. “You got one acceptance, which is all you need.”</p><p>“But Ivy tuition per semester without that scholarship is thirty eight grand.” Her frown could’ve morphed into the table it was mushed against. “And a waitlist is practically a nice way of them telling me to fuck off.”</p><p>“Language!” Martha barked. “Now listen here, you’ve worked too hard to give up now. And being waitlisted means just that; you still have a chance.” She snatched forward the letter donning MU seal. “Look here, they’re still offering the scholarship—“</p><p>“But the <em> interview…” </em></p><p>“What about it?” Martha scolded. “I can scrounge up some cash to have you on a plane to Metropolis if I damn well please. In fact,” Martha placed the letter next to Connie on the table. “You’re going to call them and schedule an interview. Now.”</p><p>Connie was more than aware that airfare was far beyond their wheelhouse of income, and that that round trip ticket would be more than a few hundred dollars. It was why Connie was the focus of all this school stuff; Martha, of course, was too embarrassed to say it—they couldn’t <em> afford </em> for Clark to go right now. Which, in turn, made Connie feel even worse.</p><p>“Martha, really.” Connie sat up and wobbled her bottom lip, knowing she was too old to look cute. “This is going to cost you way too much.”</p><p>“And I don’t give a <em> shit </em>.”</p><p>“Language!”</p><p>“Don’t you language me.” Martha barked in a sweet tone. “Now you get upstairs and make that phone call.”</p><p>Connie begrudgingly took the letter and trudged upstairs, stopping and peeking into Clark’s room.</p><p>Everything was in place the last time he’d straightened it up; that was around five days ago. She sighed and stepped inside, inhaling at the warm scent of Clark.</p><p>He’d been acting different since the funeral; distant, strange, and just odd for some as open as Clark. Family dinners had turned into Connie and Martha quietly eating and waiting for Clark to sneak in and act as though he wasn’t gone all day.</p><p>The bed was still made, and the fabric cinched as she sat down.</p><p>
  <em> Where are you, Clark? </em>
</p><p>“I need you,” she whispered into the cold room.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Hello, this is the Admissions Office at Metropolis University. How can I help you today?”</p><p>Her palms were sweaty, “Hi—Hello, I received a waitlist letter today.”</p><p>The woman on the other end brightly replied, “Ah, yes. I’m sorry to hear that.” She didn’t sound the least bit sorry. “There isn’t really anything else I can tell you as to where you place on the waitlist, it really is out of my control, Miss. If there is anything else—“</p><p>“No, no, no,” Connie blurted. “On my waitlist letter, it says I need an interview, so I’m just seeing if I’m supposed to schedule that now or later.” </p><p>A beat of silence passed between the two women.</p><p>“Oh!” Connie jumped as the woman on the other end spoke a little too loud. “Can I please have your name?”</p><p>“Connie, Connie Mayfield.”</p><p>“Alright, Ms. Mayfield. Let me pull up the interview required waitlist section. It should only take a moment.”</p><p>The line cut to a piano medley that reminded her of something that played in those pretentious elevators that felt like sardine cans.</p><p>“Hello? Miss Mayfield?” The line cut back in after a few minutes of head bopping to the tune. “You’re right, you’ll need an appointment followed by an interview to determine your acceptance into this institute.”</p><p>“Okay, makes sense.”</p><p>The woman soullessly chuckled, “Alright, the open dates I have on my calendar to meet with the Dean of Admissions and the benefactor of our STEM program are July 17 at 1, July 19 at 3, July 21 at 1 or 4. Do any of those work for you?”</p><p>The words ‘benefactor of STEM’ were ringing in her ears when she responded. “Uhm—Yeah, I think next Saturday—July 21st and 1 works great.”</p><p>“Alright, Miss Mayfield.” There was a clicking of keys in the background. “It says here that you’re from out of state. Have you secured a suitable mode of transportation to the Metropolis area by your interview date?”</p><p>“Yeah—I’ll be taking a plane there. I should be there fine.”</p><p>“Alright, then.” The woman sniffled. “And just so you know, missing the interview forfeits your position on the waitlist.”</p><p>Well, that was a little nauseating for Connie—if she missed this interview she was so screwed<em> — </em>“I understand, and thank you so much.”</p><p>“Is that all I can help you with today, Miss Mayfield?”</p><p>“Yes, thank you.”</p><p>“Have a nice day and see you next Saturday.”</p><p>The line had barely clicked before Connie was up and bolting out of her room, down the stairs and skidding into the kitchen, words already spilling out.</p><p>“I got the interview and it’s next Saturday and I need that ticket and—“</p><p>Her mouth snapped shut as her head reared back, brows furrowing at the sight of Clark—a duffel bag over his shoulder, a thick coat that covered his entire chest, dark jeans no doubt from a flea market, and a cap pulled down near his eyes. The dirty running shoes he’d worn in senior track were barely held together on his feet</p><p>It normally would’ve made her laugh.</p><p>Martha was sitting at one of the chairs with her elbow resting on the table, frown lines pulled deep on her face.</p><p>Connie tried to keep a cool demeanor—key word <em> tried </em>—“Hey Clarke… you going somewhere?”</p><p>The air in the kitchen is stiff between them.</p><p>“Connie.” Her name sounds dry on his lips.</p><p>Their gazes hold and Connie feels her stomach grow tight with rage. Martha isn’t even looking up at this point, her head pointed down as she sits.</p><p>This wasn’t a surprise to Connie—to see Clark like this. It only made sense that he would leave to try and find just exactly where he fit in the world. It wasn’t here picking corn that’s for sure. And deep down, she knew she wasn’t what Clark needed right now.</p><p>“I’m guessing there’s nothing I can say to convince you to stay.” She’s proud enough to admit her voice doesn’t waver.</p><p>Clark had the goddam audacity to look <em> hurt. </em>And better yet, he didn’t attempt to  speak, just turning and walking out of the kitchen door. Martha makes an attempt to stop Connie from following him out, but she shrugs her off.</p><p>“You’re a real jerk, Clark!” She bellowed as the kitchen door slammed behind her, marching towards Clark’s frozen back.“I didn’t take you for someone who leaves the ones they care about.”</p><p>Now, she’s facing him, staring into the baby blues that looked pained and sad.</p><p>“You’re not the only one whose lost their father, Clark.” She spat his name with venom.</p><p>“Hell, my dad is still alive, but he couldn’t give two <em> shits </em>about me. And did I run? No, I stayed and I made a life for myself—“</p><p>Her hands plant on his chest and try to push him away, which is a lot harder than it looks. “With you. With your mom and your dad, and <em> you </em>.”</p><p>The venom in her voice is replaced with pain. “What happened to being your world, Clark?”</p><p>That seems to be enough to get Clark in her face, nostrils flared and brows furrowed. Those strong hands are on her biceps, tugging her close as he leans down.</p><p>“No matter where I go, or what I do, you’ll always be my world. I love you, Connie, and nothing can ever change that.”</p><p>She’s the one who pushes forward and presses against his lips, relishing in the feeling of kissing the man who has always, and will always have the key to her heart.</p><p>Was it supposed to feel this right? As though there were no one else in space and time that was meant to hold you in their arms.</p><p>The feeling of heat in her chest grew, and it made it harder to pull back and look into those oceanic blues. There was determination in them—one stronger than herself or Martha—and there was hope—that this wouldn’t be the last time she would feel his lips on hers.</p><p>What more was there even to say?</p><p>“Goodbye, Clark.” She whispers as he lets her go with one last smile and stalks away from the Kent Farm.</p><p>
  <em> Goodbye. </em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hope you all enjoyed!</p><p> </p><p>My dog passed away this November, and I am unaware of when I will be posting again. Please, be patient</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hope you all enjoyed!</p><p>I do have a regular tumblr spencer-is-amazing.tumblr.com<br/>My Henry Cavill tumblr is henry-cavill-baby.tumblr.com</p></blockquote></div></div>
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